At my current location, I am unable to print. Certain errors may remain unspotted until I can look at a hard copy, but all will eventually be corrected. Thanks, re-edited.

25: White Out

Tracy Island-

Jeff summoned the boys and Hackenbacker to his office. The elder Tracy had caught the same news bulletin as Scott, but he seemed filled with more concern and exhaustion than go-fever. In fact, Scott received the distinct impression that his father hadn't slept in days. There were purple shadows beneath Jeff Tracy's brown eyes, and his normally immaculate grey hair was uncombed; nor had he changed clothes.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, Jeff closed his eyes momentarily; giving himself a wholly inadequate break. His engineer and tall sons filed into the office, stepping over (and sometimes onto) a maze of Styrofoam packing blocks and tangled cables. Scott, he noted, seemed tense and eager… Virgil alert as a bird-dog on point… John pale and disinterested. As expected, Jeff supposed; for recent experience had taught him to study his customer base, gauging in advance how people were likely to respond to a ploy.

Some minutes earlier, Kyrano had delivered a tray of coffee and sandwiches. Jeff indicated with a nod that his offspring and employee were expected to help themselves to lunch (though no one did).

"Have a seat, boys… just move those boxes out of your way… you, too, Brains. Thankyou, gentlemen; and welcome. I've had a long night, so I mean to keep this meeting short and focused."

He set his Tracy Aerospace mug down atop a large manila envelope, then shifted it suddenly, dabbing at a faint brown coffee stain as though the folder contained state and family secrets. (Which, in a way, it did.)

"The situation down south is grim and getting worse," their leader informed them, getting up to lock the envelope in a camouflaged wall safe. Then, patting back a deep yawn, Jeff returned to his seat. "I've done some checking, and no one has the first idea how to reach the pole, until the weather breaks."

He looked up again, tiredly scanning first Hackenbacker, then Scott, Virgil and John.

"I'll be honest with you, boys; I'd hoped for something a little less hazardous, first time out. More milk-run than life-or-death, maybe. But…"

"Dad," Scott cut in, surprising them both, "one-hundred-fifteen people are out on that ice, and they haven't got a chance without us. Rescue 2…"

"Thunderbird," Virgil corrected him; softly, but with real determination. The island and International Rescue had already begun changing Virgil Tracy.

"Fine. 'Thunderbird-2' is probably the only craft capable of reaching the pole and getting those people evac-ed in one trip. We're the only game in town, folks; we've got to try. Look, if a bunch of Air National Guardsmen can give it a go, so can we." He turned from his brothers to Jeff, squarely facing his father.

"We've spent hundreds of hours training for this, dad… and simulations aren't going to make us any readier. Sooner or later, we've got to jump in. Might as well be now."

Scott met Jeff Tracy's gaze head on, his stance and tone projecting a wing-leader's ready confidence.

…But what of the engineer?

Jeff's eyes shifted from his oldest son to Hackenbacker; from fighter pilot to scientist.

"Brains?"

"S- Sir, the, ah… the Rescue-2 aircraft has p- power enough to, ah… to safely reach the p- pole, and can be, ah… be loaded with all-terrain snow vehicles, as well."

The lanky man removed his glasses, wiping at their adjustable-focus lenses with a clean bit of tie.

"…But, w- we'll also need, ah… need polar survival suits, h- heating packs and, ah… and p- plenty of blankets and coffee. The N- North Sea oil rig evac scenario w- would, ah… would be easily adapted to s- suit the current emergency, with, ah… with that w- wilderness blizzard procedure and nuclear checklist thrown in, I think." Then,

"I assume, M- Mr. Tracy, that I will be riding along w- with, ah… with your sons?

Less a question than a statement of fact, for Hackenbacker very much wanted to see his designs face real action.

Jeff nodded briskly.

"I was counting on it, Brains. Scott and Virgil have performed outstandingly on the simulators, but there's no substitute for good, on-the-spot advice and experience."

So… Scott, Virgil and Hackenbacker were to embark, without John.

As Brains scurried from the office, programming instructions into a PDA, Scott threw in a request of his own.

"That Shadowbot program is pretty complex, dad. More than I'm comfortable dealing with while flying through a major blizzard. We're going to need John, too."

Not that his second brother seemed to notice, or care. Since entering the room, John had kept his head down and his face blank; even without the long hair, utterly unreadable.

Jeff shot a quick, hard glance at John, who did not lift his blond head. At this point, their father might have said any number of things, from helpful to scathing; he chose the safe, middle course.

"John, is your presence aboard Thunderbird-2 really necessary to the functioning of, err… 'Shadowbot'?" he asked, managing to sound nearly casual.

And strangely, then (although it didn't show on his face) John suffered a bout of confusion. Officially, no; he didn't have to be there. On-the-fly updates to his stealth program would actually be easier to effect from base… and anyhow, John had the very strong feeling that he wasn't meant to go, that he was supposed to remain safely behind while others handled the risky part.

But Scott was trying to make eye contact, and Virgil nodding his head, just out of their father's view. Apparently, they wanted him along… which meant that he ought to reply.

"Yeah... Yes, sir. Shadowbot is more likely to function properly if I'm there to make any necessary corrections. It's, um… still in the beta-testing phase."

"Right," Jeff responded, trying on a brief, tired smile. "Why don't you ride along then? Stick close to Brains. Don't do a thing without his permission, or Scott's. They'll keep you on the straight and narrow."

And then, to all three,

"Go ahead, boys. I'll contact WorldGov and let them know who we are, and what we've got in mind. God speed."

…Which was how they came to be back in the cockpit of Rescue… now 'Thunderbird' … 2, poised for launch at the business end of her cliff-side runway.

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Antarctica, on ice that heaped and slumped beneath them like something alive-

There were five dome tents, bright orange and braced with special alloys, each about fifty feet in diameter. They'd been fastened to the ice with long, heated stakes by men and women acting in terrible haste, for extra time outside meant death. This was hypothermia so deep and intense that its victims lost sensation, will and consciousness in less than fifteen minutes. So, with no margin at all for mistakes or second guesses, the Pole crew set up their shelters.

There were twenty-three people huddled inside each dome, with chemical heating packs, heavy clothing and twenty-two neighbors for warmth; a small comm unit for hope. Not that it was really possible to hear.

Heavy tent cloth, woven of carbon nanotubes and insulated with NASA technology, barely kept back the cold. It juddered and snapped around them like a windsock; quivering, blowing in and sucking back out again as though the entire shelter were gasping for breath.

Shifting ice worked at the tent stakes, bending some nearly double, pushing the others entirely out of their holes. After perhaps an hour of this, alternately shoved and dragged at by screaming winds and flexing ice, one of the shelters collapsed.

At first, no one panicked. Fred Darson took firm hold of his daughter's parka, defending her with his own body as orange cloth and metal poles thundered down upon them from all sides. Doctor Charlton Walker was near, so Fred seized him, as well.

"Sarah! Charlie! Hold tight…!"

He shouted over a ferocious din of snapping poles, of flapping cloth and cracking ice, hoping against sense and logic to be heard. Then, sickeningly, the tangled mass of tent, equipment and people began lurching downward. Slipping.

'Crevasse,' Darson thought wildly, just before something struck him.